Everything Will Be Alright
by CherryBlossom65
Summary: - Pavel A. Chekov, navigator of the USS Enterprise, woke Monday morning with a small, achy yawn. - Pavel gets sick with a fever and horrible pain, but due to his childhood experiences in Mother Russia, he tries to hide it from everyone, and scares the hell out of the bridge crew, who turn out to be the perfect family for the young Russian. They will always make it okay for him.


Hello! So I'm procrastinating on my main collection-of-one-shots-story "Behind All That You Are Still A Kid" by searching google for my guilty pleasure – Chekov sick fics. *crawls around on floor* I'M SORRY WORLD!

Hah! Anywho, I had something _very_ specific in mind that I was going to just post as a prompt, but then I thought "What the hell, why not write it myself," so here I am! It's also to distract myself as my best friend of 6-7 years is moving away in today...I am very sad...this might have to start a hiatus on "Behind All That..." for a few weeks...I can't fucking function. Sorry! Moving on!

**Disclaimer: As much as I wish Ensinge Pavel A. Chekov could be my birthday present this year, and despite my dreams of cuddling him, having him take care of me when I am poorly(and vise versa), and having tea with him of a chilly evening (not to mention that Chulu and Chekov x CherryBlossom65 (myself) is the only fanart I put days' worth of energy into), I don't own Star Trek in any way shape or form, but I wish I did! (Only in my dreams will that happen... *sigh*)**

_A/N: It just occurred to me that I know next to nothing about Chekov's medical conditions/overall health, family, and so-on, so please bare with me! __**ALL FLAMERS WILL BE REPORTED AND REMOVED. I'VE TAKEN ENOUGH OF YOUR BULLSHIT ON THE MAIN STORY!**_

* * *

Pavel A. Chekov, navigator of the _USS Enterprise_, woke Monday morning with a small, achy yawn. He attempted to stretch his slightly-paining leg and arm mussels, but stopped almost instantly as the pain that shot through his entire body cause him to cover his mouth with his hands and push his pounding head back down into the soft fluff known as his pillow to muffle his cry of pain. "Мне больно!"

Lifting his head back up from the pillow with a small, weary sway, the seventeen-year-old navigator brought his left hand up to his face, gently whipping away the warm tears that had slipped out moments before.

Biting first his bottom lip, then the tip of his tongue and rotating so neither would become swollen, Chekov forced himself up out of the bed.

He declared himself a miracle-worker when he managed to get his bed properly made and his shivering self into a hot shower, hoping it would help relieve the ache in his every mussel and un-clog his senses even the tiniest bit. Which, by the way, it did.

The curly-haired navigator was overjoyed that he woke up early everyday for an hour-long morning run – the one he skipped today – for he never would have imagined that putting on his starfleet uniform shirt would scrape so roughly against his dry skin, or that brushing his dirty-blonde curls would cause possibly the worst pain he'd ever felt on his head. Ever.

Luckily, he got to his station on time, and managed to keep his head low for the day, hiding both his pale completion and crimson-red flushed cheeks until lunch.

Pavel escaped the bridge-wide debate about chess games and something-or-other in time to get a small glass and fill it with water without anyone seeing him and declaring him sick. He had dealt with sickness and fever before, and knew how people reacted. At least, he thought he knew.

Back home in Russia, his parents did not have time to care for him when he grew weak, exhausted, injured, or ill.

When Pavel was seven years old, he over-exerted himself working in the field without his coat or scarf, and when a neighbor brought him home, his mother put on quite a show for her. She kissed the top of Pavel's curly-blonde locks and ushered him into the warmth the house had to offer, thanking Mrs. Dasha for bringing to "poor little boy" back to his home.

However, as soon as the door was closed, she turned back to him, and her cheery smile faded away with speed. She smacked his bottom and put a fist to his head, ordering him upstairs to his room.

She told him to look after himself, that she and Papa didn't have time to care for him, and that if it ever happened again, she would not hesitate to tell father, who would surely pull our his crisp, thick leather belt. The one with the pointed metal bits on the edges.

Pavel managed to keep that promise to Mama quite nicely, in his own ways.

For example, when he badly sprained his ankle at the age of ten, he limped only when Mama and Papa were not around, pressing painfully on it whenever they were around.

At night, he would climb down the vine of wood and dead plant to fill his boot with snow and the softest ice he could find before bed, and quickly cleaned up it's melted remains in the morning.

Sure, it had taken almost a whole four months to heal, the days passing by painfully slow, but he had not been punished.

When Pavel was twelve, and almost done with secondary schooling, he caught a nasty fever and cough.

His head pounded louder than his heart's echo (which he could clearly hear while asleep), his throat burned with dry pain that never ended, and his lungs begged for the air they could not handle.

He never let anyone know, and eventually he got over it.

This sickness went on, before he got better, for two weeks, and Pavel never said a word to Mama or Papa. He would be off to Starfleet in a few more years anyways. Then he would be free from his old home and old chains.

Now, he figured that it would be the same here on the _Enterprise_, only it was because he didn't want to bother any of the crew. They were always so nice to him, treating him the way a real family would be...he couldn't bother them over a small sickly feeling. He just couldn't.

Besides, he had made it through most of his day.

The seventeen-year-old Russian was glad he had about a half hour to go back to his room and rest.

His head was pounding worse than before, and his throat, even after the glass of cool water, burned with a dry, scratchy feeling.

The pain was almost too much for even him, the strong-willed little Russian navigator, to handle.

He wondered if perhaps he _should_ go to sickbay.

Walking slowly back to his quarters, Pavel swiftly avoided a swiftly moving Dr. McCoy and Captain Kirk, who were too engaged in their conversation to notice him at all.

"Honestly, Jim!" McCoy spat.

"If one more sick, bleeding, injured person comes limping into my sickbay I swear-!"

Chekov darted back to his quarters after hearing that.

He knew it. No one would have the time to see him.

There were many on the ship with _real_ problems, and Chekov getting a case of the sniffles would only weigh them all down. He had to be a strong fighter, and not bother anybody.

Captain Kirk, he thought while walking over to the bathroom to refill the small glass with more water, was a very busy man. He was captain of the entire ship for crying out loud! Surly, someone as important as the captain did not have time to worry over Chekov, and oddly enough Pavel found some hazy reason within that thought.

Mr. Spock was also a busy crew member, and the Half-Vulcan man hadn't had a proper conversation with Chekov since Chekov failed to save his mother. Twisting the metal handle and releasing the cold water, he clarified this thought also.

"Vhy vould he veesh to talk to me?" she said softly, voice congested and hoarse.

"I keeled hees own mozer...he vill newer forgeew me..." he tried to clear his throat to ease the burning, but as soon as her inhaled, the young Russian began to cough and shake violently.

Luckily, he had to water with him. Chekov greedily gulped down the water, slamming the cup down to refill it once more as a few new thoughts passed by his feverish and hazy mind.

Uhura was yet another busy person – but who on the _Enterprise_ wasn't?

She was also very kind, and sweet, and Pavel wouldn't dare ask her to mother him. She had too much to do. As far as Pavel was concerned, Uhura should get to relax during her spare time.

Asking her for help would just be selfish of him.

Then came his closest friend, Hikaru Sulu. Hikaru was an amazing person, another busy, overworked person, but an awesomely amazing person. Hikaru often told Chekov of his family, his old friends, his home in San Fransisco, and, most recently, how hard Captain Kirk was working him.

Sulu was a great piolet, so naturally Kirk gave him the bigger, harder jobs. Hikaru deserved some peace and quiet... Pavel really didn't want to bother him.

Of course, there was then Dr. McCoy, and judging by what Chekov had overheard in the halls, was in up to his ears. Pavel didn't really want to admit it to anyone, not even Hikaru, but Dr. McCoy sometimes really scared him. Pavel understood perfectly well that the doctor was very stressed and one of the most busy people on the entire ship.

Yet, despite this, sometimes he heard McCoy yelling. It was always at either Captain Kirk or Mr. Spock, and he knew the doctor didn't mean to come off as he sometimes did, but it reminded Chekov of his Papa.

He didn't dare ask McCoy for help.

Scotty was nice and easy to talk to (most of the time), but Chekov didn't wish to bother any of his friends over this. It was too stupid to bring up.

"_Oh, and Scotty? I sink I need your h'elp because I'm feeling seek a'nd can't tough eet out."_

How strong he would feel then. No...no asking or help...he could get over this himself.

Pavel crossed the room with the now-full glass of water to his bed.

Plopping down on it Pavel let the final few thoughts pass through his pounding head and allow him to rest for a short while before returning to the bridge.

With a small snore, Pavel drifted into a deep, restless, painful sleep.

Pavel woke with a start, knocking over his glass of water without caring.

Feeling worse than before, he squinted his dreary eyes at the clock. 14:48 pm! He was late!

Pavel Chekov, the Russian wiz-kid, the youngest member of Starfleet in 50 years, was _**late**_.

Quickly jumping up out of bed, ignoring the massive headache and over-aching mussels and dashing out the door.

It was odd for Chekov to be out of breath when he arrived at the bridge, but it was clear to everyone that something was wrong.

* * *

"Does anyone know where Chekov is?" Kirk asked aloud. "He's nearly two hours late."

Just then, as if on cue, a panting, sweating Pavel Chekov. He was leaning against the frame of the entrance, face pale, cheeks flushed aside from their bright red tint, swaying slightly as he tried to stand up strait.

"Pa-Pavel?!" Sulu gasped. Why hadn't he noticed this earlier? Pavel was his best friends and he looked like he was going to pass out.

"S-Sorree for bee-beeing late, Keptin..." he tried to force a smile and walk to his post, despite how badly his head hurt.

"Mr. Chekov, are you alright? What's wrong?!" Kirk was panicked. He hadn't noticed this? _Why_ hadn't he noticed this?!

"I-I eem fine-!" but right after saying those words, the young ensinge felt the world begin to spin and he fell to one knee, coughing harshly and gasping for air.

Everyone leapt up, instantly concerned.

Sulu rushed to his friend's side, rubbing his palm into Pavel's back in soothing circles, but Pavel couldn't stop. His coughing grew harsher, deeper, and louder.

"Pasha, breathe. Breathe in and out, Pasha!"

Kirk grabbed his communicator and signaled McCoy.

"Bones!" he shouted into it, still watching Pavel through the corner of his eye.

The poor kid looked terrible. His face was whiter than snow, electric-blue eyes dull and glassy, he was shaking madly, still coughing, gasping, and wheezing. He felt like the most heartless person in the world, not noticing this sooner.

"_What is it Jim? Did Scotty drink too much scotch again?"_

Jim made no pause. "No! Get the hell down here, Bones! It's Chekov! Something's really wrong with him!"

He could hear Leonard inhale.

"_Okay, Jim. Calm down and explain just what is happening to him right now so I know what's going on." _

'_Stay calm,'_ Jim repeated in his head. _'For Chekov's sake.'_

"He's really pale and his cheeks are flushed and red. He's shaking and out of breath and coughing like crazy. It's like he can't stop long enough to properly breathe."

Sulu then shouted to him, "He's burning up, Captain!"

"And he has fever."

"_On my way, Jim. Try to get him to calm down, then his breathing will slow. McCoy out."_

Turning back to Chekov, Kirk knelt down beside Chekov rubbing his back as Sulu did the same.

"Pavel, pavel it's going to be alright. We're all here for you, okay? Now I need you to breathe in for me. Try to hold in the coughs and inhale, okay?" Chekov attempted a nod and did as told, breath soon slowing down.

"S...sank you...keptin..." Chekov said hoarsely.

Uhura gave Chekov a little water, carefully placing the cup to his dry, cracking lips and pouring gently down his soar throat. He smiled his thanks, breath still rough and jagged.

"Pavel, Bones-er-McCoy is on his way, okay? I need you to tell me what's wrong, Pavel."

It was rare for the captain to use such a soft and gentle tone, let alone Chekov's first name. It calmed him somehow to know everyone _did_ care. It had never been like this in Russia.

"My head...h-h'urts...and...am deezy...chest h'urts too...hard to ... br-breathe...h-hot...a'nd c-cold...at s-same ti...time..." he managed to say.

At that moment, McCoy burst in. Running the tricorder over Chekov's barely conscious form, he concluded his diagnosis. "Nurse Chapel! Put him on the Gurney, take him to sickbay and give him the first three hypos for the BPPV influenza!" he shouted, hypo-ing Chekov's neck carefully.

"What's wrong with him Bones!?" Kirk shouted, scared for his navigator.

"He's gonna be okay, Jim. The kid's got a case of the BPPV flu, but he'll be okay." the doctor assured everyone, packing up his hypos and tricorder.

"What's BPPV flu?" Uhura asked.

"It's a form of influenza linked to the natural illness, Benign paroxysmal positional vertigo or BPPV. While BPPV flu causes strain on the heart, chest mussels, lungs, and core temperature nerves, regular BPPV is a severe sort of dizzy spell. He'll be okay in a few days, a week at the most. I'll be in sickbay with him if you want to check on him, alright?"

All heads nodded.

* * *

When Chekov woke up, he felt less achy than before. His head was still light and very dizzy, but his throat and eyes didn't hurt anymore.

"Pavel?" he looked up to see Sulu, Captain Kirk, Spock, Uhura...well, everyone. In their arms were books and small flower samples from the Botney Labs.

He smiled at the sight of everyone. At the sight of his family.

Everything was going to be alright.

* * *

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I hope you liked it! That bit of Russian in the beginning means "It hurts!" Now, BPPV is indeed a real illness and it's symptoms are similar to those of a heart attack. BPPV Flu, however, is some kind of crappy illness I made up to give Chekov a hard time. Hehe! I'm such a horrible person! Oh Well! So I think next I'll be writing...well...um...eto...I don't really know right now. As previously mentioned my best friend of seven years if moving away to day, yesterday we said our goodbyes, and now I'm sad as hell. Sooooo yeah.

_**INCASE THE FLAMERS MISSED IT, FLAMING THE STORY RESULTS IN ME REPORTING YOU. **_

_A/N: I just remembered! I did have an idea for a story where I am warped into Star Trek: 2009/Into Darkness (haven't decided which one yet) and that will be starting soon. I will try to update "Behind all that you are still a kid" soon. Bye Nee!_


End file.
